Glissando
by palesadpuppet
Summary: [Davy Jones x Cutler Beckett] Beckett has never heard anyone play quite like Jones does. Jones has never had an audience.


_Glissando_

Beckett stands behind Jones' right shoulder, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, and watches him play as the ship's old timbers creak softly below his feet.

The room is cavernous, lit only by candelabras set haphazardly along the sides of it, everything old and dark as though it's been lying below the sea for a thousand years. Steam goes up from the pipes around the organ in great bursts, curling above their heads and fogging the stain glass window behind the instrument. Many panes of the glass are already cracked, broken, or blown out entirely, and Beckett wouldn't be surprised if the power of the sound will break more before the song is done. From his position, perhaps closer to Jones than most would like to be, he can hear little things below the towering sound of the music; the slap of tentacles on old, yellowed keys, the hiss of steam, and Jones panting and snarling as he bends over the organ to play.

It's certainly an interesting spectacle. In spite of himself, Beckett lets his eyes follow Jones' tentacles as they slither over the keys and isn't sure whether he's repulsed by the display or impressed at the dexterity with which Jones controls each of the slithering appendages. He suspects it's the former, but he likes his current position, where he's more or less safe and mostly dry. He's seen what happens to those who offend Davy Jones. There are worse things even than what the crew faces, out in the rain and heaving on the ropes to the tune of their master's organ; Beckett keeps his mouth shut.

Not that he truly thinks that Jones would listen if he said something. The master of the Flying Dutchman is seems oblivious to the fact that there's someone else in the room, tentacles pounding the keys and making the space around them ring. Beckett has always preferred a more controlled kind of music- like the piano, which he fancies himself to be somewhat skilled at-, something pleasing to the ear that is not nearly so distracting. He can scarcely believe allowing himself to become as absorbed in the music as the captain does.

There's a certain appeal, but it's the kind of appeal that Beckett has taught himself to avoid at all costs. It's similar to the appeal of piracy, although perhaps less dangerous. Not that Beckett has honestly considered piracy anything more than the path of a fool since he was a child; the sea calls somewhat more irresistibly to some people, he knows.

Beckett finds his thoughts wandering with the music, even though his mind should be here with the Dutchman's volatile captain, and the booming sound keeps dragging him back to the present. He thinks about business, what good business this whole affair could be, and then about Jack Sparrow and Elizabeth Swann and William Turner and James Norrington, but they're all just names. Oh, yes, he knows Jack- he doesn't think he could ever come to not know Jack-, and he understands them all, but they mean nothing to him and he isn't sure why his thoughts stray to them. However irritating they are, of course, he supposes that dealing with them _would _be preferable to being trapped aboard the Flying Dutchman.

Jones plays a thundering chord that brings Beckett back to his senses with a jerk, pulling away from the organ as the great room echoes. He is gasping for breath for a moment before seeming to realize that he's not alone and forcing himself to calm. When the echo has faded, Beckett decides to be polite- because Jones could fault him for his silence, but surely not for appearing to appreciate his music- and, unclasping his hands, applauds.

The clapping rings somehow hollowly in the room and Beckett stops after a moment, wondering if he's disturbing the captain rather than encouraging him. Davy Jones is silent for a long moment more, then looks at him; his eyes are all too human for his face. Beckett clasps his hands behind his back again and bows his head. "Impressive."

"Thank ye," the Dutchman's master replies, his voice lilting oddly at the end. Scottish, Beckett thinks, although Jones' voice is as strange as the rest of him. "It's not often that I have an audience."

Beckett nods, figuring that's a more tactful response than pointing out why he doesn't have an audience would be. "Perhaps you'll join me later and I'll play for you again," Jones continues, rising to his feet- well, foot and peg leg.

"It would be my pleasure," Beckett replies, allowing a note of interest to creep into his voice. He had never gotten the impression that the captain was playing for him, as the Dutchman's master had never appeared to notice him at all. More than likely, Jones was just being polite.

"I'll have a man show you to your cabin," Jones says, turning to the door; his peg leg thumps against the floor. So it is made of wood under all those barnacles, Beckett thinks idly, studying the leg for a moment. Jones pauses for a moment, then swings to face him suddenly, causing Beckett to start; several of the tentacles in his beard flick a tad too close to him for comfort. "Join me after dinner."

Beckett nods, this time because he doesn't trust himself to speak, clearing his throat again and waiting as Jones summons a member of the crew to escort him away.

His cabin is cramped, damp, cold, and generally uninviting, and Beckett is already missing the warmth and open space of the room with the organ by the time they bring him dinner. Dinner is, as he should have expected, a whole unappetizing meal. He can't bring himself to eat most of it and, when Davy Jones calls for him and the crew member with a shark's head comes to fetch him, he is more than glad to go.

Beckett finds the captain of the Dutchman alone as usual, sitting at the organ and idly tapping the keys, not hard enough to make them sound. Jones looks up when he walks in. "Beckett."

"Jones," Beckett says, nodding politely.

"Make yourself comfortable," the captain says, and laughs as Beckett looks around fruitlessly for somewhere to sit. He starts to play the organ after a moment, and while the music is still beginning, not even starting to build up yet, Beckett gives up on getting comfortable and simply goes to stand at Jones' shoulder again. The music isn't nearly so harsh as it was earlier that day, and he finds it far easier- dangerously easier- to sink into.

He's closing his eyes by the end, only snapping awake from his doze when the song ends- with a thunderous chord, as usual. He applauds, and Jones seems vaguely flattered.

The next day, Jones doesn't bother having his servants walk Beckett to and from the room, taking him there and back himself. By the end of the week, Beckett is finding it easy enough to go himself, having memorized not only the route between his cabin and Jones', but a dozen more besides.

It seems odd, coming back every morning and every evening just to stand back and listen to music that, despite the routine, is never the same- but captures him in one way or another each time. Beckett supposes that he could even admit, now, that the music has him almost as entranced as it does the captain himself. Jones seems at his best when he's playing and strangely awkward or abrupt otherwise, speaking to Beckett less and less as the days turn into weeks.

All the same, it isn't until after Jones has been edgy and snappy for days that anything happens.

The music finishes with a boom, having been angry and conflicted throughout, and Jones stands up sharply while Beckett is still quietly applauding him. Beckett starts to talk, but stops with a little gasp when Jones grabs his hand. The cold of the captain's hand seeps through his glove and turns his hand white and clammy in a moment, and even colder still is the tentacle that slides across his wrist from somewhere up Jones' sleeve and wraps around Beckett's arm. "Jones," Beckett says, rather stiffly, forcing himself to hold still. "What-"

The captain snarls and yanks his arm, cutting him off and pulling him closer so that Jones is towering over him. Beckett swallows slightly, wishing not for the first time that he were taller. "Jones, I-"

"Be quiet!" the captain snaps, and Beckett shuts up, staring up into his sea-green eyes for a long, tense moment before Jones abruptly seems to snap. He jerks his head away for just a second to stare at the door, then grabs the front of Beckett's shirt and shoves his mouth against his.

The Dutchman's master's lips taste of salt and brine and are so cold that, unthinking, Beckett finds himself gasping and leaning back. Jones' mouth follows his, kissing him until his lips are numb and white. Through the shock, Beckett is aware of what has to be a tentacle caressing his cheek. It's stunningly cold and Beckett's lips are turning blue around the edges when Jones lets go of him; he stumbles back against one of the pipes and grabs onto it for support, breathing heavily. Jones stares at him as Beckett drags his composure back together, shred by shred, finally straightening up and adjusting his collar as if nothing has happened at all.

"Go back to yar cabin," Jones snarls.

Beckett starts and stares a little, opening his mouth to argue, then shakes himself. "Good evening, Jones," he says, the words tripping on his tongue on the way out his mouth, and almost runs for the door.


End file.
